


And What I Choose is My Choice

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Crack and Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the maids put the Stark cloak around her shoulders, Sansa resists the urge to wrap it tightly around her and relish the last moments she has as Sansa Stark of Winterfell. From this moment on, she will be Sansa Baratheon, a technical princess but always a prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And What I Choose is My Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Started this a million years ago for the kink meme and never finished it. It may be continued. We'll see.
> 
> Title comes from "Disarm" by The Civil Wars.

They force her to marry Tommen a fortnight before Joffrey's wedding to Margaery. Cersei does not want to pay for her to have a new gown, but, as she is about to wed a prince, Lord Tywin insists; it is a pretty gown, emerald-colored with Myrish lace, and once it would have made Sansa very happy to wear it. When the maids put the Stark cloak around her shoulders, Sansa resists the urge to wrap it tightly around her and relish the last moments she has as Sansa Stark of Winterfell. From this moment on, she will be Sansa Baratheon, a technical princess but always a prisoner. Lord Tyrion explained how this will work, how she and Tommen will wed and, when the war is over, how Winterfell will become their seat. It galls her to think of Winterfell, held by Starks for 8,000 years will be in Lannister control. Tommen is a sweet boy, but he is just a boy, one easily influenced by his mother and those around him. He will end up like the others; even Lord Tyrion, who has always been kind to her, is a Lannister at the core, and they will ruin Tommen too.

Joffrey escorts her down the aisle, whispers how he will delight in raping her some day; she keeps her face blank, the first trick she has learned at court, and looks at Tommen, who stands in his crimson best with a too-long Baratheon cloak around his shoulders. He stands on a step, but she is still taller; he is not even 9-years-old and she is barely two-and-ten, but they are to be man and wife.

Sansa thinks the gods are having a jape at her expense.

The High Septon reads the words, and, when required, Sansa speaks. Tommen fumbles with the exchange of cloaks, and Sansa wants to cry as the grey and white is replaced with black and gold. There is to be a kiss to signify the end of the ceremony, and she bends; Tommen kisses her cheek, his lips wet as if he licked them in preparation, and it makes her think of Bran, who is with the gods now.

Her entire family is with the gods now. Mayhaps Jon Snow still lives on the Wall, but there is never word from there.

Food turns to ash in her mouth. She and Tommen share a chalice filled with iced honey milk, and it surprises her, how much she wishes for wine instead. When the music starts, she dances a turn with Garlan Tyrell and some man from the Westerlands, but all Sansa wants is to fly away, to disappear, to join her family. 

There can be no true bedding. When it comes time, they are escorted to a chamber to sleep. Sansa changes into her nightdress behind a screen; by the time she emerges, Tommen is already happily ensconced beneath the furs, his golden curls bright against the pillowcase. She slides beneath the furs, keeping a distance between them, but Tommen flips onto his side to look at her. His green eyes are bright from the day's excitement, and Sansa cannot help but smile at him in return; it is not _his_ fault his family is using him as a pawn.

“I am glad you are my wife, Sansa,” Tommen tells her in his guileless voice. “At least we did not have to marry strangers, and now we can play together all the time.”

Sansa's heart aches sharply as she nods, swallowing back the urge to cry. “Yes, that will be nice, my prince.”

Tommen grins, snuggling deeper into the soft feather pillows. “I shall be a very good husband. I promise not to ever yell at you or strike you, and, if we have daughters, you can name them, but I want to name the sons.”

A little laugh slips past Sansa's lips at his terms. She doubts Tommen even understands how a child is made; Sansa isn't even certain she fully understands herself. “Did someone tell you to say that?”

Blushing a bit, Tommen admits, “Uncle Tyrion. He said a prince should always be kind to his princess.”

Sansa remembers the feel of mailed fists crashing against her body, the livid bruises which still haven't fully healed beneath her shift. “And I shall always be kind to you.”

“I know. You're always kind to everyone. That is why I like you.”

He snores in his sleep, soft little sounds that remind her of Rickon, and Sansa buries her face in her pillow before she lets herself cry for everything the Lannisters have taken from her.

* * *

Ser Jaime returns to court a few days after Joffrey's grand wedding to Margaery, his right hand missing. Tommen is horrified by his uncle’s maiming, and, as she watches Grand Maester Pycelle disappear with Ser Jaime, Sansa wonders how she never noticed how much Cersei's children look like her brother.

“Is he going to die?” Tommen asks her when they sup, his lower lip quivering.

“Of course not,” Sansa assures him, wishing for the knight's death even as she comforts her husband. “He is the grandest knight in all Seven Kingdoms, is he not?”

“But why would someone cut off his hand?” he pushes.

 _Justice._ “There are bad men in this world, Tommen.”

“Bad men killed Bran and Rickon.”

Sansa freezes for a moment before nodding. “Yes.” _And my father, my mother, Robb, Arya, and countless others._

A certain fierceness fills Tommen's chubby face as he declares, “I will not let any bad men hurt you.”

Sansa would laugh if the irony was not so cruel. Tommen is just a boy. How can he know the ones he loves the most are the worst of men?

* * *

Lord Tywin declares she and Tommen be sent to Casterly Rock with Lord Tyrion. Cersei objects, tries to insist Tommen remain in the Red Keep, but Lord Tywin ignores her, tells her the Rock has never fallen and never will. Sansa does not quite understand what is going on; there is an undercurrent to the conversation she cannot follow, a tension that speaks to years of disagreements Sansa is not privy to. The only person who could stop it is Joffrey, who does not seem to care at all. Sansa has no desire to go to Casterly Rock, but it will get her far from Joffrey, which is her primary concern. He has been distracted with Margaery, but Sansa knows it is only a matter of time before he forces her into his bed.

“Have you ever been to the Westerlands?” Tommen asks as they climb into the litter, the Lannister men given strict orders to not allow Tommen to ride at all. 

“No, my prince.”

“It's nicer than here, isn't it, Uncle?”

Tyrion smirks, and Sansa thinks it makes him resemble a creature from Old Nan's stories. She has scarcely been able to look directly at him since his nose was lost on the Blackwater. “Yes, it is the land of gold and wonder.”

“I am certain it will be beautiful.”

“We could go swimming if you'd like,” Tommen offers, bouncing a bit as they begin to move. “Mother says it is too dangerous, but Father used to let us. Do you know how to swim? I could teach you if you don't.”

“I know how to swim,” she manages, thinking of Riverrun and the warm waters of the Tumblestone, her father's certain hands holding her and teaching her how to kick her feet while Uncle Edmure held out his hands for her to swim into; she can still hear Jon and Robb splashing about and Arya shouting indignantly from the shore, where she was ordered to remain with Bran and Mother, who was swelling with Rickon.

“There are real lions there too,” Tommen continues. “We cannot touch them, but we can look at them. Won't that be nice?”

Sansa smiles wanly. “I have never seen a true lion before.”

Tommen falls asleep before they reach the inn, his head lolling against her shoulder. Sansa carefully arranges him so his head can rest on the pillow sitting in her lap, and she suddenly feels Tyrion's mismatched eyes upon her. He looks at her speculatively, and, for a moment, Sansa meets his gaze. It is as close to a challenge as she has ever given the Lannisters, since she has given _anyone_ since that terrible day Joffrey made her look upon her father's head, and she thinks there is something like respect in Tyrion's eyes.

She does not care if Tyrion Lannister respects her or thinks her as dumb as Cersei does; she does not care if Tywin Lannister only calls her “girl” or that Ser Jaime seems to flinch from the sight of her. Sansa does not even care that Joffrey freely refers to her as a slut or whore in front of court.

All Sansa cares about is leaving King's Landing and having her first taste of freedom in years.

* * *

It feels like a betrayal to even _think_ it, but Sansa likes Casterly Rock. Unlike the Red Keep, the servants seem to like Lord Tyrion, and they positively adore Tommen. Even her status as a traitor's daughter, a traitor's sister, does not mean she is treated unkindly; Tyrion gives her several ladies' maids, all of whom she does not worry are reporting back to the Red Keep, and one of the Lannister bastards, Joy Hill, comes to stay. Tommen spends his day having lessons with the maester and master-at-arms, and Joy shows Sansa around Casterly Rock and keeps her company while they embroider and gossip with the other women. Some days Sansa can almost forget what has happened, can convince herself everything has just been a terrible dream; but then there will be whispers about sieges at Riverrun and the Boltons holding Winterfell, and Sansa remembers.

It is starting to grow colder, winter arriving with a light snow and winds that are nowhere near as frigid as those in the North, and with it comes Sansa's thirteenth name day. Lord Tyrion offers to give a feast, but Sansa politely refuses, choosing instead to “celebrate” with Tyrion, Tommen, and Joy. She picks at her supper, sipping Arbor gold while Tommen bounces in his seat, blurting out the moment the meal is finished, “Can I give her the present now?”

Tyrion laughs and nods while Joy tells her to close her eyes very tight. Sansa does as she's told, waiting for Tommen to bring her a new gown or hair combs; the last thing she expects is for her boy-husband to place a squirming, happy wolfhound puppy in her lap.

It is big for a pup, though not as big as Lady once was; its rough coat is grey and black, its tongue soft as it laps at Sansa's hands. The big brown eyes are bright and trusting, and Sansa feels tears rising in her throat as she remembers Lady. Her lost wolf rarely leaves her thoughts, and even as the puppy curls more comfortably onto her lap, Sansa wonders if it is a betrayal of Lady's memory to want this dog.

“I wanted to get you a wolf cub, but they said it wasn't safe,” Tommen reports, grinning as he gingerly touches the dog, his hands more tentative than they are with his kittens. “The kennel master said she will get as big as a direwolf though.”

“What will you name her?” Joy asks, and the name falls off Sansa's tongue before she can even truly consider it.

“Winter.”

Tyrion's lips quirk as he drawls, “Well, I will certainly tremble when I see her coming.”

She kisses Tommen's golden curls in thanks before cuddling Winter against her chest. This time Sansa vows she will make certain nothing happens to her pet.

* * *

The snows keep them inside for months at a time. Sansa likes to stand in her solar and watch the angry Summer Sea crashing against the cliffs, sending white foam in every direction. Winter has grown leaps and bounds and when she stands on her hind legs is taller than most men. Today she lies in front of the fireplace while Sansa watches the sea and imagines all the places a ship could take her.

It isn't as if life at the Rock has gotten worse in the past few years; sometimes Sansa wishes it had, so she could further her hatred for the Lannisters and explain her desire to flee. But the servants are so kind to her, and, when the lords and ladies come, they treat her with respect, even the ones who fought against Robb and his army. Lord Tyrion has taught her how to manage ledgers and explained the complexities of ruling a holdfast, and, though she'd never admit it aloud, she has learned much at his side. He is the first person in so long to treat her as if she is not stupid, as if she is worth something. It reminds her of Winterfell, where she was the smartest, the most talented, the one who had praise heaped upon her for being and doing everything a lady should.

Sometimes Lord Tyrion invites her to share wine with him, and it never fails to make Sansa wonder why he always speaks in riddles. Earlier this afternoon as they sipped Dornish sour after allocating foodstuffs for the coming months, the half-man declared, “You have much of your father in you, my lady.”

She is used to the comparisons to her mother. Even still she is complimented on her Tully features, on the beauty which makes her draw the eye of nearly every man as she passes; but very few ever mention her poor father, and the compliment had tightened her throat, lead her to claim a headache and retreat to her rooms.

It is so dark now, the night inhibiting her view, but Sansa can hear the comforting crash of the sea. She closes her eyes, tries to summon up Winterfell in her mind, and finds it is starting to fade from her memory. She is six-and-ten now, five years gone since heading south on the Kingsroad with Father and Arya, three years since Theon murdered Bran and Rickon, since the Freys killed Robb and Mother and essentially ended the war. Sansa has heard whispers about Stannis Baratheon in the North, but winter has kept Robert's younger brother stranded above the Neck until spring, however far away _that_ may be.

There is a soft knock on her chamber door. Sansa is barely half turned when it opens, Tommen standing there with a kind smile. He has grown quickly since his thirteenth name day, nearly standing eye to eye with Sansa now; he has begun to thin out as well, the softness of his middle fading away, his cheekbones beginning to become visible. His golden curls are too long now, drooping into his eyes and nearly touching his collar; he will need his hair cut soon.

“What were you looking at?”

“Nothing.” With a soft sigh she smoothes her hands over her heavy nightgown. “Did you need something?”

“Could I stay here tonight? My rooms are so cold. Uncle Tyrion says we need to hire a mason to fix it, but the snows are blocking the kingsroad - “

“It is fine,” she cuts in, knowing Tommen can ramble on indefinitely unless stopped. She crosses to her large, soft bed, peeling back the blankets and furs. Sansa reaches behind her, quickly weaving her hair into a loose braid before slipping beneath the furs, closing her eyes while Tommen undresses. Since his name day, he has spent more nights in her bed than his own, even keeping clothing in her chests now; Joy says he is afraid of winter, but Sansa thinks it may be more than that. It has been nearly three years since they arrived at Casterly Rock, and not once has Tommen been invited back to court and Lord Tywin will not allow a visit from his mother. Tommen is lonely and feels forgotten, and Sansa does not mind helping to ease that pain.

He settles in beside her, tugging the furs high up his shoulders; Tommen has an intolerance to cold which amuses Sansa. Sometimes she likes to sneak behind him when he is working on his lessons, pressing her icy fingers to his neck, giggling as he shouts and sometimes chases her about the room. It is silly and frivolous, but sometimes it is all that reminds Sansa she is nowhere near as old as she feels.

“Sansa?” he whispers in the dark, her breath warm against her face. Sansa opens her eyes to find Tommen's face beside hers on the pillow, his troubled face cast in moonlight.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think Uncle Jaime is my father?”

Sansa is suddenly wide-awake. She has heard the rumors, of course; even before she left King's Landing, there was talk that Cersei laid with her twin to conceive her children, none of whom had an ounce of Baratheon in them. Sansa was not sure if she believed it then, but it is hard to deny how strongly Tommen resembles his uncle. All of the servants whisper about it, how he is the spitting image of Ser Jaime, how he will be as tall and handsome; they quiet when Sansa enters rooms, but Sansa has become masterful at hearing things not meant for her ears.

“Do you?”

Tommen sighs. “I don't know. I do not look like the Baratheons.”

“I do not look like the Starks, but Eddard Stark was still my father. Sometimes the gods choose to give us the look of our mothers.” Sansa found his hand, clasping it in hers. “And your mother shared a womb with Ser Jaime, so of course you would look like him as well. I knew a pair of twins in the North who were so identical, their own mother often mistook one for the other.”

She does not know why she is trying to convince Tommen his mother had not lain with her twin. Sansa hates Cersei Lannister, hates Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin, King Joffrey and their useless uncle Kevan; but she cares deeply for Tommen, and destroying the love he holds for his family will not restore hers. She has no want to bring pain to anyone, least of all someone as good as Tommen.

Tommen squeezes her hand, his eyes locked with hers. In this light, Sansa thinks he almost looks like a man instead of the chubby little boy she has played sister to these past few years. “Thank you.”

When Sansa wakes up the next morning, her fingers are still tangled with Tommen's.

* * *

When the kingsroad is passable, the Tyrells come to Casterly Rock. The crops in the Westerlands had suffered during the war, and Mace Tyrell wrote that Highgarden would be pleased to help. Sansa puts on her most flattering gown to greet the envoy and is stunned to meet Willas Tyrell instead of some steward.

He is as handsome as Margaery promised to be: brown haired, green eyed, impeccably mannered. His weight is supported on a fine cane made of polished mahogany, and Sansa thinks his limp is not so noticeable. Tyrion likes Lord Willas as well, and Sansa finds herself laughing nearly every night at dinner, listening to Tyrion and Willas discus all manner of topics, her own opinions as valued to Willas as Tyrion's are. Joy does not speak much then, and Tommen is as close to surly as Sansa has ever seen him.

Willas asks to seen the lions in the bowels of the Rock, and Sansa offers to take him. It is slow moving; the steps are steep and uneven, and Sansa offers her arm for Willas to steady himself. As they descend, Sansa finds herself offering bits of knowledge she first learned upon her arrival in the West, stories Tyrion or Joy told her at one time or another; Willas listens and offers his own observations, and Sansa suddenly aches for what the Lannisters took from her. Willas Tyrell is kind and wonderful, and she was meant to be his wife, the Lady of Highgarden; why could the Lannisters have not left her be? Why did they have to make certain she could never be free of them?

It steals her breath when Willas Tyrell brushes his lips against hers. She has never been kissed before, not really, and Willas is so gentle, carefully cupping her face as the kiss deepens. His mouth tastes like Arbor gold, and Sansa makes a soft noise in her throat as she attempts to move closer. She is not sure how long they have been kissing when she hears the scrape of boots against the stone floor. Sansa pulls away as quickly as she can, but it is not fast enough for Tommen not to see what was happening, to spare Tommen the pain of it.

She cannot bear to look at Willas for the rest of his stay, so sick with shame she can scarcely stand it. Though neither says anything to her, Joy begins to speak to her only when necessary and Tommen leaves the room whenever she enters. Tyrion attempts to broach the subject a handful of times, but Sansa does not want to explain what she did, how hungry she is for a connection; friendly or not, Tyrion is still a Lannister and he could easily write the queen and recount how she has soiled her marriage.

Winter becomes her only companion, and Sansa fears the only friend she will ever have now is the wolfhound. A week after Willas leaves, Sansa returns to her room to find Tommen waiting, his eyes trained out the window. Fear swells sharply in her breast, but she forces herself to remain outwardly calm as she greets, “Hello, my lord.”

Tommen slowly turns, his handsome face folded into a frown. “I have been thinking of what to say to you for weeks now. I wanted to wait until I was certain my anger would not get the best of me.”

“You have more than enough reason to be angry - “

“I am furious,” he confirms, clenching his jaw for a moment. “But I do not know why I am. It is not as if I should have expected differently.”

Stung, Sansa says, “You expected me to - “

“I should not have expected you to ever look at me as a man,” Tommen corrects. “You've spent nearly six years playing at being my mother, my sister, my nurse; how could I have thought you'd ever look at me as your husband?”

“Did you want that?” she asks, genuinely curious. “Did you wish for us to be that to each other?”

The expression of disbelief tinged with anger and disappointment on his face is so much Queen Cersei’s, Sansa flinches from it. “Did I wish for my wife to be my wife? Are you truly asking me that?”

Sansa folds in on herself, wrapping her arms around her middle and exhaling shakily. Her head is spinning. “Tommen, I did not know – “

“That I’m in love with you? Yes, I gathered that when I found you with Willas Tyrell’s tongue in your mouth.”

“Please, I did not mean that to happen. I forgot myself. I did not mean it.” Panic starting to flutter in her chest, she quickly assures him, “I can be what it is you want. There is no need to tell anyone what happened. It will never happen again. You do not need to write anyone – “

This time Tommen flinches. “Stop.” He paces the floor for a moment, running his fingers through his golden curls before snapping, “I do not want you to be my true wife because you are afraid I will tell my mother what happened. I do not want you to be afraid of me!”

“It is not _you_ I fear.”

Tommen looks at her for a moment and, as quickly as his anger rose, it dissipates. Now he only seems sad, and in some ways, that is worse. He rubs that back of his hand against his chin, and she can hear the scrape of whiskers against his skin. He will be five-and-ten on his next name day, and Sansa forgets that sometimes.

“I will not tell anyone. Just please…do not do it again.”

There is something so plaintive and just plain _hurt_ , Sansa’s eyes flood with tears. “I swear to the gods I will not.”

It is not until he leaves, his words echoing in her ears, that Sansa understands for the first time that Tommen is as much a victim of his family’s political machinations as she is.


End file.
